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2014.05.27 - Secret War Preface: Jack Hawksmoor
Time: 2015, Sunday Place: Shitty Cafe, Hell's Kitchen A black turtleneck/trench coat combo might not be the most inconspicuous outfit that one can wear when staking out a location, but Nick Fury has always taken liberties with the 'stealth' aspect of running a spy organization. Let the dozen agents he's handpicked for the mission worry about blending in, a bald man with an eye patch was going to stand out anyway. However, sitting outside and sipping a Scottish Coffee, he seems relatively commonplace. New Yorkers have certainly seen weirder, anyway. "All units, stay on your toes. If that fancy satellite is right, our target will be on the scene momentarily and I have no intention of getting up from my seat. It ruins my dramatic presence if I have to stand." Delivered gruffly into the microphone hidden near his throat, Nick's posturing sounds like a legitimate national security concern. "And remember, snipers, the non-lethal signal is 'Red Carnation' the lethal signal is 'Blue Carnation.' Let's not have a repeat of last week's mission..." Sip. He's not...happy. In fact, SHIELD might well have noted that for the last few days, Jack Hawksmoor has been nowhere to be seen in New York. He's been...busy. And dusting off his Cantonese. His return has been marked by a strong desire for some time off. A privilege he rarely obtains. But after what just happened in Anqing, he needs it. Not to mention a few shots of something stronger than green tea. So, is he shaking down another drug dealer? Nope. He's making his way down the street, dressed once more in his standard outfit of off the rack suit and white t-shirt. And seeming quite relaxed, if a little tired. Question is open as to whether he has any clue there are snipers around. Perhaps, perhaps not. We tend not to notice things we aren't paying attention to. A voice in Fury's earbud can be heard, in crystal-clear high-definition audio "The Walrus was Paul. I repeat: The Walrus was Paul." The non-cup-holding hand is raised almost involuntarily to cover Fury's remaining good eye. "Did we let Barton pick out the signals again? Nevermind, just keep eyes on target and tell me when he's headed this way. Rockstar, make sure that lager is on the table across from me before he gets here." "Aye sir." "And Alka-Seltzer, verify the minivan is in position in case the meeting doesn't go down amicably." "Aye sir." "Fun Bags, did we get any info on what the target's favorite type of pastry is?" "No sir. Information was unavailable, but our analysts suggest that he may not eat normal food." An audible sigh can be heard across all of the headsets connected to Fury's frequency. "Well then, I suppose I'll just stage a dramatic meeting without any pastry. I can work with that." He takes another sip of his Scottish Coffee, and dabs at the corners of his goateed mouth with his cloth napkin. "Sir, this is Sunny-Side, target is nearing your position now. White shirt, no shoes, no product in the hair." All sorts of intel on Jack. Base of operations is New York, but he's been seen in cities all over the world. Somehow. He's never been seen in rural areas. Or even small towns. Has some wonderful habits. Including disappearing. He turns down the street, a route that will take him conveniently past Fury (and the lager). Oh. No shoes. He never, ever wears shoes. Three... two... one... "Mister Hawksmoor!" Fury's voice is loud, gruff, and confrontational. His voice has the quality of a man who is barking orders, but it also has the quality of a mother who is yelling at her kids to come inside for dinner. In short, it sounds every bit as if he's calling Jack's name because he's in trouble. However, his expression, though stern, is mostly placid. Having made his presence known, he raises the cup up to his mouth again to noisily slurp a bit more scotch-flavored (read: saturated) coffee. When he's done, the cup is clanked noisily against the top of the outdoor table. "A word in your ear, Mister Hawksmoor, if I may?" Nothing about his expression or tone would give anyone that the request was remotely optional. Exactly the way he rehearsed it. Jack's never had a drill sergeant. Or, bluntly, a father who cared enough to yell at him. Doesn't mean he doesn't know the type...but this is a bit more than that. He hasn't really met anyone who is *that*...controlled and in command. Not recently, anyway. A quick turn, and an assessment of the man who spoke. A large black man with only one eye, and scar tissue around it. That's enough to peg him. Combat experience, officer. Military. Which Jack isn't always particularly keen on. Firm belief? He can leave any time he wants to - and his immediate suspicion is that this man, for all that command poise, is looking for his help. To be more precise, his quite specialist abilities. He wanders over, casually, making it look very much like it's his own idea, but yes there IS respect there. He might not care for military. He respects people who've come off the worst in a fight and gotten right back up and carried on. "Take a seat." And suddenly he's Chris Hansen, calm with a subtle undercurrent of imploration. He presses a button on his watch, which appears to do nothing. However, all communications between him and his team have now been severed. Combined with the traffic noise and the loud conversations from the cafe, this effectively simulates a 'cone of silence.' Until SHIELD's lip-readers start watching the satellite footage, that is... "I took a guess that you're a lager man, so I went ahead and ordered a draught for you. But it's not often that I have to guess things like that, you're something of an... unknown quantity." "Good guess. I'm also a jazz man," Jack supplies, settling into the seat opposite. It's probable that Fury's heard the guy talks to cities. Or...something. Some kind of strange psychic abilities. "But I try to stay fairly under the radar. I don't like paparazzi." He doesn't do the tailing off mister to hook for the name, although his lips start to form it before he thinks better of it. This guy...he's not a mister. He's at least a colonel, if Jack isn't missing his guess. The super-spy looks mildly impressed. "I know a great jazz club in Paris of all places. We'll have to check it out sometime." The empty coffee cup is replaced with a fresh one. Once the waitress is out of sight, Fury empties some of the contents of a pocket flask into the black coffee. "Have you been to Paris recently, Mister Hawksmoor?" He doesn't offer his own name, as the conversation is quickly taking the 'good cop' aspect of a 'good cop, bad cop' interrogation. "Paris? A couple of months ago." He abruptly narrows his eyes a little bit. Yup. Guy wants him to chat with a city and, most likely, from what he just said - Paris. Which means, something's up in Paris and he missed it. Not that he is aware of everything going on in every city on Earth. Heck, a lot of the time Jack has to rely on things like, oh, the news. The internet. But he's definitely interested, leaning across the table slightly. Screw vacations. "Yeah, I thought that was you. Satellite imagery was a bit fuzzy, but a nice square-jawed man like you is pretty distinctive, especially given your... peculiarities." From somewhere on his lap, Fury produces a plain, unmarked manilla folder bound together with a string. The folder is lightly tossed across the table, landing right next to Jack's lager. Inside are photos of satellite imagery from various locations, some dated from months ago or further back. "You see, I have a confession to make. I didn't set up this little meeting just to ask you to go on a man date with me in Paris. In fact, truth be told, I fucking hate jazz. I'm also not a big fan of 'unknown quantities' like yourself." He leans forward a bit, his one good eye unblinking like some sort of middle-aged shark with a goatee. "But what I am a fan of, Mister Hawksmoor, is answers. Answers which I feel very confident that you can provide for me, if I'm willing to meet you halfway. And for now, there's only one question that I have a burning need to find the answer to: Can you get into Latveria without drawing attention to yourself?" "Is getting into Doomstadt good enough?" Jack asks, mildly. Unknown quantity? There's the slightest flicker of red in his eye. Hrm. What does New York think about this man? A quick query - he can't go all the way into meld right now. Cards, chest, close to. The folder doesn't seem to phase him. This guy's military intelligence, or ex military gone into intelligence. CIA or SHIELD, most likely. "See? I was just telling my friend Fun Bags that you were smart. She was like 'This guy's not cut out for this' and I said 'Now listen here, Fun Bags, I hear what you're saying, but I disagree.' Boy is her face going to be red when I tell her that you guessed what I wanted before I had to tell you anything." "It'll match her elbows. I don't like to tease her about it, but she's got some really bad eczema." Fury looks off into the distance, though whether he's reminscing about Fun Bags' eczema or preoccupied with other matters is probably best left open to interpretation. "But yes. I'd like you to do me a solid, hang out in Doomstadt for a few days, bring me a bit of intelligence, maybe see what Doctor Doom is up to, find out if any of the locals can be turned, that sort of thing. In exchange, I can promise you very little pay and the knowledge that you've helped make the world a safer place." "Meaning..." Jack doesn't glance around, but he's paying a lot of attention to who might be listening, right now, even as he reaches for his lager. "...that you're damn sure Doom is up to something, but you aren't sure *what* yet. Not that that's an unusual state of affairs." For a moment, Fury is merely silent. He alternates between staring at the man across from him and staring at the rapidly-diminishing coffee in his cup. "That's a valid interpretation of my statement, I suppose. But you'll understand, I'm sure, if I'm reluctant to either confirm or deny whatever suspicions I might have. I am, after all, in the intelligence game." "I want to be very clear about this: If you accept this job you'll have no support, no funding, and I'll deny your existence if you're caught. You'll be assuming an extreme amount of risk, and may never fully understand what it is you accomplished. But, as I mentioned before, I'm in the intelligence game, and that's how it's played." The dramatically-shady man stands up, leaving the folder there on the table and a hundred dollar bill next to his cup for the waitress. "Get in touch with me within the next twenty four hours if you're interested in doing some good. If you haven't contacted me by then, I'll move on to Option B." Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a simple white business card and slides it across the table. "I can be reached at this number when you've made a decision." The business card is fairly plain, with an outline of the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo in blue ink serving as the backdrop for the black letters which read: 'Nick Fury: Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.' Below this, a telephone number that obviously goes directly to a cell phone rather than the S.H.I.E.L.D. network. SHIELD. Figures. The CIA's less likely to hook in a meta. Money. Money tempts a guy who can't, by the nature of his powers, really hold down a regular job with regular hours. The business card, though, is claimed. Jack's lips quirk. "Figured," is all he says. Which could be an answer to the card, to the concept of deniability...but then? It's probably less risk for him than for most... His work done (or at, at least, this particular job) for now, the SHIELD Director places an encouraging hand on his newest recruit's shoulder. A firm squeeze, and suddenly he's leaving. A simple black van pulled up sometime in the middle of the conversation, and the doors open as Fury walks toward it. Inside, all of the agents are wearing getups similar to Fury's; heavy on the black turtlenecks and sunglasses despite the late hour. The Director looks over his shoulder as the doors to the van slide closed behind him. "Nice timing, Alka-Seltzer." The button on his watch is pressed again, connecting him to his team. "All units, head back to the Argus and get some rest. I'm taking you all for a run at 0430 tomorrow." The van merges into traffic, turns a corner, and is quickly lost. Category:Log